


possessed by light

by x (ordinary)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 15:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' honey-gold eyes drink in the sight, greedy in the textbook definition of the word (adjective, having or showing an intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth or power). It's true to the letter, because Stiles craves the power to reduce this man to pieces, to lovingly gather them up, to tape together his shard glass insides that match his own.</p><p>--</p><p>In which not everything is as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	possessed by light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [noplzno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noplzno/gifts).



Derek is wrecked.

It's written in his skin, carved in between the corded muscles of his arms, in the frenetic pace of his bobbing throat, in the slightest quiver of his stomach, abdominals clenching. And oh, what abdominals they are. Stiles doesn't have the senses of a wolf (preternatural, enhanced, unbelievable), but even he can see it, hear it. Taste it.

Stiles' honey-gold eyes drink in the sight, greedy in the textbook definition of the word (adjective, having or showing an intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth or power). It's true to the letter, because Stiles craves the power to reduce this man to pieces, to lovingly gather them up, to tape together his shard glass insides that match his own.

Crawling forward, he feels like something awe-inspiring and gorgeous instead of sixteen and awkward, because Derek looks at him with hazel eyes and blown pupils, glinting in the darkness. They're on the floor like uncivilized creatures, because beds and soft things are overrated and that's not what he wants from Derek, not what he needs. They're in the burnt up husk people sometime mistake for a house, covering up the bad memories in a way they don't talk about.

Stiles' lips (sinfully pink, he's been told on good authority) wrap around Derek's aching length, and he tastes like salt-musk-sweat, and Stiles is careful to cover his teeth, to try and remember what he's seen in porn and what to do now. He falters, for a moment, sitting back on his haunches, looking down at Derek's naked form. Derek groans, because it was just a taste, the smallest of them, and it seems like Stiles in a teasing mood, today.

"It's not fucking fair," Stiles mutters with a shake of his head, still raking over Derek's body with his eyes, wants to take him apart bone by bone to categorize him, to put him in a box for his admiring only, a butterfly pinned inside a box. "You're an adonis, jesus christ."

Derek laughs weakly, and his face is just as flushed as Stiles' is, and his blunt nails dig into the floorboards.

"Shut up," he says, still reluctant to accept the compliments because they're something he's heard all his life, the sum of his worth, a pretty face, and Stiles slides a hand up his leg, nails raking along his thigh, coaxing out a soft exhalation. "Get over here."

"Who do you think you are," Stiles replies with a drawl, his nails tracing patterns into olive skin, but his lips are quirked into a smile, crooked in a way that Derek is too familiar with, this smile that isn't quite right, that makes him feel like he's in Pleasantville, in a reality that's off kilter just enough.

Stiles makes him feel like his chest will burst, overinflated with conflicting desire-guilt-need-rage, and the way he's lazily jerking Derek off doesn't do anything to assuage any of it.

"The alpha?" Derek replies with a laugh, mostly a puff of air, steadfastly not bucking into Stiles' clever fingers if it's the last thing he does. At this, Stiles throws his head back with a laugh, and finally stradles Derek's hips. It's not the velvet soft of his mouth, but grinding against the teenager's dick is still too excellent, and the guilt fills him up to the brim.

"Quit it," Stiles murmurs, dragging nails up Derek's front, angry red lines following shortly thereafter. They stay there, among the mottle of bruises both new and old, and the bitemarks that are slowly starting to crop up across his skin. Stiles treats him like a canvas, or more accurately, something wonderful to defile. "Anyone ever told you that you live too much in your head?"

"Laura," Derek replies, one hand clasping Stiles' hip, the other cradling his chin. Stiles jerks away from the tender gesture, like a stallion shies away from a bridle. Refusing to be contained. Insisting on independence, even as he starves for contact.

"Don't talk about your sister in bed!" He sounds almost scandalized, stopping for a minute, and Derek pushes himself up onto his elbows, cocking his head like a confused dog.

"We're not in a bed, Stiles."

"Don't be obtuse." He leans forward, aiming to shut Derek up, and their kiss is bite-blood-vicious, with no teeth clack because Stiles is too busy worrying at Derek's lower lip, and it makes him smile. He pulls Stiles closer, and he's successful only because Stiles wants to be moved, his form tightly compacted with strength hidden away like a squirrel does nuts.

Derek could protest it, but he wants this, wants their relationship full of snark and cruelty and half-snarled words, wants it even though Stiles visibly flinches at the idea of a relationship, at the word of it. The R word. Not as bad as the L word, but close.

Their lengths rub against each other, the friction electric dancing down Derek's spine, the heat in his belly pooling molten hot. He pants against Stiles' lips, bucks his hips and moans as Stiles ducks his head, nosing into the hollow of Derek's throat.

"Dude," Stiles says, voice thick with something, a something that's probably arousal, "you smell delicious. Better than, I don't know. Cake. Better than curly fries." Derek laughs, but his arousal spikes, and he feels the knowing smile curve against his skin.

"Thanks," Derek murmurs dryly, and he's not even sure if he's surprised anymore when he means it. He reaches over towards where his pants had been thrown, or at least what's left of them, and procures a tube of lube. He slicks up his fingers, and it takes a while because Stiles is tugging at his nipples, twisting them too hard, until he outright snarls, a loud sound that's sharp in the air, not echoing at all, muted by the walls of Stiles' room.

"I mean it," Stiles says emphatically, and his voice is a little slurred, his eyes blown, and Derek presses two fingers inside of him at once, shocking him out of it. It hurts, he knows it does, but Stiles grinds his hips down anyway, eager for it, for the stinging swell of something both pain and pleasure.

Derek lets himself drown in the way Stiles loses control.

Stiles always stripped him clean, laid him out before letting Derek take him, and he knows the rules. He presses a third finger into him, into the heat that's burning up and yielding to him all the same, and Derek curls his fingers and it's Stiles' turn to shout. He digs his nails into Derek's shoulder, and he finds that he doesn't mind, despite the fact that those clever hands of his have drawn blood. It's not the first time, it won't be the last.

"Fuck me already, jesus christ," Stiles moans, and the snap of his hips tells Derek he thinks he's ready. He's not, but he wants it, and the longer Derek puts it off the crueler Stiles gets. Instead of arguing, he reaches down to lazily fist his own cock, withdrawing his fingers, waiting just a moment, and then the fat head of it is pressing into Stiles.

As expected, he's impossibly tight, and Stiles thrashes on top of him, sinking down inch by inch, his own cock hard as nails, and Derek reaches to touch him. His hand is batted away, Stiles' eyes glimmering in the shadows. "No," he growls. "Not yet."

Derek feels the weight of Stiles against his hip, and doesn't pause. He grabs for those sharp hips, fingers caressing the prominent hipbones, and promptly lifts him and drags him back down, setting the pace brutal and too much, too fast. Stiles' voice goes stuttery, and he brings his thin arms to link around Derek's neck, pulling him closer, muttering incoherently, and their banter bleeds away in favour of something darker.

Stiles wants to hurt, and god help him, Derek wants to oblige. His hips arch upwards with every thrust, the sound of Stiles' cock slapping against his belly, his balls tightening far too early but he breathes through his nose, and Stiles is damn near screaming at him for more, to go faster.

He's got a feeling that Stiles wants to bleed out all the hurt, but Derek knows there's not nearly enough blood in that compact body to do it.

Instead, he pushes Stiles to the ground, throws coltish legs over his shoulder and rams into him, hard. Stiles shivers from head to toe, pressing his fingers inside Derek's mouth, meeting his gaze with an intensity Derek sometimes finds frightening.

The fingers alone are a little terrifying: he's seen them main and cut and shred, but he trusts Stiles, so he sucks, laving his finger along them as he presses into Stiles and fucks him wide open.

"Shit, Derek, I'm gonna, gonna," Stiles hisses, twisting away from a sloppy kiss to fling his head aside, tears collecting in his eyes from the intensity of it, and Derek disobeys his previous orders, wrapping a large hand around that leaking erection, strokes it the way he knows Stiles likes it, too hard and fast and relentless. He keeps it in time with the pace he's fucking Stiles at, and he knows like Stiles preferes Captain America to Iron Man that it's what drives him crazy, like he knows his internet porn addiction, like he knows that Stiles is the Alpha.

Stiles comes hard, and his blissed out face is something that sears into Derek's mind no matter how many times he's seen it, burning a Stiles sized hole into Derek's heart that can never be repaired. His eyes gleam red like blood, and he wolfs out because he's the Alpha but he's also a teenager, still not surefooted in his control.

Derek comes a little after, after switching so Stiles is laid out on his hands and knees, but Derek is already sated, because Stiles has met his completion, and pleasing the Alpha means something to him, even if he's not a wolf. It's what you do, giving them what they want, and Stiles had made it very clear that he wanted Derek, in every possible way, at any given moment, for any reason, feasible or otherwise.

The teenager curls around Derek, possessive, and murmurs soft words like if anyone else even looks at Derek, then he'll ruin them, their families, their lives.

Derek lays there, staring up at the ceiling, fingers brushing over the triskele tattoo at the base of Stiles' neck, watching the motes dance in the dim light, the windows mostly blocked off by heavy curtains, just one sliver of light bleeding through.

Stiles carves an S into Derek's back, lazily, with an extended claw, golden eyes shining in mirth as he marks his property.

Derek is wrecked.

It's written in his skin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> look liz i wrote....sort of sexy stuff!
> 
> and surprise stiles is the alpha! 
> 
> ...surprise! 
> 
> title is from Richard Siken's "Crush", bless your heart, guy who inspires everything fandom ever.


End file.
